Annie's Promise (25 page)

Hannah was called up to Miss Bates now and Sarah
watched her friend walk to the desk and sit down, her face hidden by her hair. She had spots. Why did people get them? Sarah felt her own skin – so far so good. Paul had spots but then he didn’t want to kiss anyone, he’d said, so it didn’t matter.

Hannah was walking back now. ‘Piano,’ she mouthed, then louder, ‘Your turn, Sarah. Good luck.’

Sarah nodded, picking up her slip of paper with guitar written down. She handed this to Miss Bates who looked at it, then at her. ‘Another one. As I said to the others, it is out of the question. You have a choice of violin, recorder or piano.’

‘But I want to play the guitar.’

‘The guitar is not a proper instrument, it’s just something that’s used to make a noise, these days anyway.’

Sarah nodded. That’s just what her da had said. ‘But I want to learn to play it properly. I’m fed up with the washboard and anyway, skiffle’s gone out really. Did you know, Miss Bates, that rock ’n’ roll is our present-day folk music.’

‘Nonsense.’

Sarah smiled, she’d hoped Miss Bates would say this. ‘It’s not nonsense, skiffle was a strain of American country blues, played by blacks and rock ’n’ roll’s the same really. It’s like our folk music and we listen to that in musical appreciation, don’t we? I mean, if we could all learn the three basic chords around which the music is geared all of us could play it and write pieces, instead of plonking along learning piano chords and taking exams.’

Sarah knew the whole class would be listening. They had talked about it this morning, decided that each of them would ask for guitar and one of them would have to try to talk Miss Bates round – no one else had volunteered.

Miss Bates sighed, fingering her hair which was grey at the temples, but only sometimes. Davy said she dyed it, but Bet said only fast women dyed their hair. Sarah looked at Miss Bates. No, she wasn’t fast, never had been, never would be. Had Bet been a fast woman – she’d had Tom when she
wasn’t married. But Sarah didn’t want to think of that, didn’t want to think of old people being fast – it was revolting.

‘I’m putting you down for piano,’ Miss Bates said. ‘It will give you a musical sense and in due course you can pursue your guitar playing on your own, if you must.’

So that was that, Sarah thought, walking back to her desk, hearing the whispered ‘Bad luck’ ‘Never mind’ ‘Good try’. At break they huddled around by the milk crates and wondered why adults were so stupid, so set in their ways. Why did they have to be so narrow minded? Why did they always know best? Why did they never listen? Their parents were the same – nag, nag, nag.

On the way back to Wassingham she told Davy that it hadn’t worked – that they’d just have to keep on with the book. She dragged the beginner’s guide out of her satchel and as the bus jerked and rattled from village to village they played imaginary chords and talked of Elvis and Haley and Buddy Holly, who had died in February, and they still couldn’t believe that.

They practised that evening at the Youth Club hall, working on
Rock Island Line
until their fingers were too sore and their throats too dry to sing another note.

Roger, the Youth Leader, was sitting on a chair at the front of the stage, calling instructions to the ballet girls who were going to dance to
Swan Lake
on the gramophone.

He shouted to Davy over his shoulder. ‘Much better, but still needs work. Remember that when you take the world by storm, no good without practice.’

Sarah told Annie and Georgie that when she arrived home half an hour late but it didn’t help and she was packed off to bed without cocoa, but who cared, she thought, lying in her bed, hearing the cat yowling next door and the pigeons fluttering. She pulled her radio into the bed and listened to Radio Luxemburg beneath the covers, trying to cut out the interference, wishing it was her group playing, promising herself that one day it would be.

At the end of September 1959 Annie set on another worker, this time a mother with a child. They partitioned a room, brought in sand and camp beds and Gracie and Bet shared the running of the creche whilst Annie, Georgie and Tom shared the printing between them as well as their normal work. Brenda took on the supervision of the staff completely but there were still not enough hours in the day and while Sarah practised, or did her homework, Annie and Georgie worked in the kitchen and they knew that Tom and Gracie were doing the same.

Mrs Anders from next door came in each morning to clean the house and peel the vegetables and each afternoon she popped in to put a casserole in the oven.

‘Better than Mr Jones,’ Georgie would say to Annie each week.

As October turned to November the weather grew colder, snow fell and Annie was glad that the birds were in moult because they didn’t have time for long journeys any more and besides, there was still no car for Georgie.

He fell twice the day of the snow, and twice the next day, and so Annie lugged down the wheelchair from the attic, heaving it down the stairs, dragging it into the kitchen, dusting it down as he ate bacon and eggs and Sarah played drums on her lunch-box.

‘There you are m’lord, your carriage awaits. We’ll bung it into the car and keep it at Steadman’s, then you don’t have to skid yourself across the car park.’ She felt tense, he hadn’t used this at all.

Georgie looked at it, and then at her, his eyes shadowed, then cleared. ‘You ought to wear a cap, I insist on it. I like my chauffeurs properly dressed.’

‘You’ll get them as you find them, or I’ll haul you to the top of a high hill and let you go.’ Annie was laughing, pushing the chair through the yard, out and into the boot of the car. It wouldn’t close but who cared, Steadman’s was only round the corner.

She turned and Sarah was there, her face angry. ‘He
shouldn’t be in the chair, he should be in his car. Why can’t we get that one converted, Mum, it’s not fair.’

Annie felt the wind tear into her and pulled her cardigan round her, taking Sarah’s arm, pushing her before her into the yard, seeking the shelter of the walls. ‘Do you think I haven’t thought of that? Really, Sarah. Brenda uses the car for deliveries, so does Gracie, and whoever happens to be on the run that day. It’s just not possible. I’m saving as hard as I can, now don’t worry.’

Sarah shrugged out of Annie’s grasp, her face sullen. ‘Well, someone’s got to.’

She turned but Annie grabbed her arm again. ‘Just what do you mean by that? And look at me when I’m talking to you.’

‘I mean just what I said,’ hissed Sarah, looking at her mother now, her cheeks red. ‘You’re all right, you can get about. You’re like everyone else, rushing around looking after yourself, never listening, never seeing what people need or want.’

Annie felt anger flare. She shook her daughter. ‘How dare you talk to me like that? You know I’ve done all I can for your father and I’m still doing all I can. I just don’t know what’s the matter with you these days, Sarah, you’re so difficult. I think you’re spending too much time up there in your bedroom listening to that damn music, you need to sit with us in the evening, or something.’

‘I like that damn music, and I like my damn bedroom.’

‘Don’t swear.’

‘Why not, you do. But then adults can do anything they like, it’s just us who can’t, even though we’re not kids any more. We just have to do as we’re told – play the piano, not the guitar.’

Annie threw up her hands, and wanted to put this child over her knee. ‘So, that’s what all this is about, is it? I really cannot believe I’m hearing this from you. Go in, put your sandwiches into your lunch-box, fill your flask because I’m
not doing it any more if you’re so very grown up, and hurry up, you’ll miss your bus.’

She watched as Sarah stalked into the kitchen. She listened to the bangs and crashes. She waited until her daughter came out again, walking past her, and Annie itched to slap her. Sarah stopped by the gate. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t about me, not really. It’s about you and poor Da.’

Annie said. ‘Just go to school.’ Her voice was quiet with rage.

She went into the warmth of the kitchen and stood in front of the range, gripping the guard. Kids, bloody kids, she thought to herself – and I thought the nappy stage was difficult.

That day Annie called a meeting and discussed the possibility of using their own textiles on a mail order shot. It wasn’t scheduled until spring 1960 but demand from wholesalers was increasing. ‘I know it’ll go,’ she said because they had to improve their profits. Sarah was right, it wasn’t fair that he should not have a car and somehow that had been forgotten.

The workers agreed and so did the family. Georgie rescheduled and Tom suggested that they took on Bernie to help with the printing. ‘He’s retired from the pit, but he’s bored out of his mind. We can’t do everything you know, bonny lass,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Annie snapped.

‘You had a row with someone?’

‘No.’

She rang the bank that afternoon and explained about the mail shot, that Georgie would need to be mobile – it was just too much for the rest of them. ‘Too inefficient,’ she said. ‘I just need to extend the overdraft.’

The bank manager agreed. That was the easy part. The difficult one was to convince Georgie.

She sat on his desk after lunch, playing with the papers she’d brought in, knowing that she looked tired, knowing that they all looked tired. ‘Now, with this mail shot, we’re
going to be under even more pressure so you’ll need to do your own running about. I’ve arranged a bank loan. Tom’s agreed, so will you do the same please?’

Georgie put down his pen, laid his hands flat on the table. ‘We can’t afford it.’

‘We need to spend money to make money sometimes. We can afford it. We will afford it.’

Brenda interrupted her. ‘Sorry Annie, call from Jones. They want a further supply of aprons. Interested in some children’s dungarees too.’

Annie nodded. ‘I’m coming. Now, just give me a break will you Georgie, take some of the load.’

He picked up his pen again, bent his head, began to write.

‘Georgie, are you listening?’

He looked up. ‘Sometimes I feel I want to punch my fist through a brick wall. It’s so bloody difficult being like this.’ He tapped his leg. ‘It’s so bloody difficult for everyone connected with me, and today it aches, the cold’s got into it.’

Annie smiled at him. ‘You have no idea how easy it is to be connected with you.’

Sarah walked from the bus to the back yard, pushing the door open, calling to Mrs Anders that she was home, hearing her reply from the kitchen.

She opened the door. The range was burning, the kettle was on and the kitchen smelt of macaroni cheese. She slumped into the chair, dropped her satchel on the floor, then stood up and walked down the road, through Steadman’s car park, into the machine shop, then into her mother’s office. She was on the phone.

Sarah sat down and listened to the strain in her mother’s voice, saw the lines running deeply to her mouth. She looked so tired and Sarah hadn’t noticed. She felt the raffia beneath her legs. It was warm and she could hear the sewing machines all around, music from the radio – Alma Cogan, Frank Sinatra, no rock ’n’ roll. Sarah looked at her hands, sore from the washboard and covered in ink from her leaking
pen. Her stomach tightened again as it had been doing all day. She felt the tears close again, though they hadn’t fallen yet, and they mustn’t. Girls of twelve didn’t cry.

‘Sarah, how nice. Shall I get you a cup of tea?’ Annie put down the phone, started to rise.

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it, I know I shouldn’t. I don’t know why I say these things.’

She was crying now but her mother’s arms were round her, holding her, smoothing her hair. ‘I deserved it,’ Annie said. ‘I had sort of forgotten, other things to think about, other priorities but he’ll have it within the next two weeks. It’s all been sorted out.’

Sarah let herself lean into her mother, let her stroke back the hair from her face but the tears were still coming. ‘In PE today Miss Smithers said I needed a bra and the other girls laughed.’

Annie held her more tightly. ‘Growing up is very difficult, my darling. I’ll bring some home tonight.’ She looked over her daughter’s head at the machine shop, the design office, the printing shop and wondered where all the years had gone, and knew that the coming ones were going to see more of this and the best she could do was to keep the lines of communication open. It would need a light hand.

That night she sewed yards of petticoats for Sarah’s skiffle costume, then the skirt, the wide belt, the top, and then sat on her daughter’s bed and talked about growing up, all the uncertainties, the conflicts, boyfriends, kissing, petting and Sarah was glad that the lights were out and wished that her mother would stop, because they’d talked all about sex at school, and then on the bus going home with Davy and Paul and it hadn’t been embarrassing like this.

Her mother bent forward and kissed her, ‘Don’t listen to Radio Luxemburg for too long,’ she said. She smelt of lavender and now Sarah hugged her, holding her tight, not wanting to grow up, but impatient for it too. ‘I love you, Mum.’

Annie remembered this as she and Georgie sat in the
audience with Gracie, Don, Maud and Teresa on Saturday evening and winced at the ballet, tapping to the African drums, swaying to the English madrigals played by the organist and his friends.

‘It’s music through the ages and from many lands,’ she told Don, pleased that he had come.

‘How quaint,’ said Maud, looking round. ‘But no Tom, no Rob?’

No, there was no Tom, he was at a debating competition, supporting Rob. ‘We had to split up,’ Gracie said, ‘So each of the boys had someone there.’

Annie drank her tea and wished that just for once it had been Tom who had listened to Davy.

They talked of the new mail shot, the clauses in the lease, Don’s business and Teresa looked at the programme and asked if there was any piano playing. There was not, Annie said, taking Bet’s cup, moving away as Teresa told them all in a loud voice about her success at her own school concert.

After the interval there was jazz dancing and then Davy and Sarah, with Paul and Geoff, rasped out
Rock Island Line
and now Annie’s feet were tapping, and her hands clapped out the rhythm with the rest of the audience, though Don, Maud, and Teresa kept silent. They were good, really good and Sarah’s voice was confident, powerful, brilliant, and Annie felt such pride that suddenly she couldn’t clap, she could only grip her hands together because her throat was tightening and her eyes blurring and at the end she wanted to stand on her chair and whistle and shout like the kids in the audience were doing.